


For, Lo, the Winter is Past

by beaubete



Series: A Garden Inclosed [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harem, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 16:08:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4228287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q entertains his mother-in-law.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For, Lo, the Winter is Past

**Author's Note:**

> Ah! And now there are no more side fics written in this universe! I wrote this because I wanted to see Q and Bond settled into their home, to see Q find a place where he fit, and I think this fic does that. I hope our readers have enjoyed reading about this universe as much as I've enjoyed writing in it.
> 
> It feels weird to let this one go, so I won't--I'll leave this one open for side fics and more, perhaps, someday.

Q steps to the side as she bustles in, an entourage of slaves and servants along with her: the Dowager Queen accepts his welcome as if it is a matter of course, as if it is her due.  Of course, it is, so he can’t bring himself to be annoyed.  She makes an approving noise as he invites her to sit in his little parlour with a wave of his hand.  The slaves and servants spread a wide array of treats across his little table, dragging over extra tables from the corners of the room to fill with savouries, sweetmeats, sugared fruits, jellies, honey-soaked pastries, and an enormous silver tea set before disappearing.  As soon as they’ve come, they’re gone, and it’s only the two of them around the table.

Q pours her a cup of tea delicately, careful not to overfill or spill, and she hums her pleasure as he pours one for himself.  He’s grown addicted to the stuff now, though it must cost Bond a fortune to bring it in from lands far to the south.  He savours the aroma before touching his lips to the rim.

“I honestly didn’t expect you to fuck him, you know,” M tells him, and Q yips, more at the tea that’s splashed in his lap than from the mortification at her words.

“Er, yes, Your Majesty, the weather has been unseasonably cool,” he tells her, standing to dab at the cushions with the hem of his tunic.  It doesn’t work; the cushion and his clothes are both stained, and M snorts.

“I had thought you might be friends, you know.  Perhaps he’d grant you a dispensation to have a wife, a few children.”  She continues blithely, then sips her own tea as though she hasn’t just suggested he cuckold the King.

“That was never going to happen,” Q tells her firmly.  M raises an eyebrow.  “I—even if I didn’t—”  And it feels odd to tell your husband’s mum that you’re surprised by how deep your affections for him run.  He swallows and presses on, “—even if I weren’t fond of him, I would never—”

“It’s been done before,” M says.  Her tone is dismissive.  “I had lovers Andrew knew about; I bore one of them a child, though that was a very long time ago.  It’s not uncommon, nor so scandalous.”

“It is to me.”  He can’t imagine taking a lover, even with James’s approval, can’t imagine wanting someone else enough to—

“If he may have seven wives—and a husband—and fuck a dozen concubines, why shouldn’t you have a family?  You couldn’t marry, but you could fit a girl here, a child.”  It sounds pragmatic, sensible.  Q imagines it and his stomach churns.

“That’s not something I want,” he tells her, voice flat.

“Yet.  Give it time.  My dressing girl is sweet; I could introduce you.”

“I—”

“Or we could find someone for you.  In a year’s time, there could be a baby in the pleasure rooms again.  He would provide for the child, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I couldn’t imagine rearing a child in the pleasure rooms; I couldn’t bear to tell them that Mummy has to leave from time to time so that Papa can reassert his claim on Daddy with his prick.”  Just the thought of explaining the complicated system makes him itch—he barely understands it himself.

“So send the child to the nursery for the night.  It’s been done before.  As for sending her away, why?  The concubines share a room, you know.  Even when the King is visiting.”

Q blinks into his teacup, cheeks lit with embarrassment.  The conversation’s saltier than he’d expected this to be, and honestly, he just wants to enjoy his tea and visit quietly and perhaps gossip about the other consorts.  He shoves a nut pastry into his mouth so he doesn’t have to answer, and it’s as he’s sucking the honey from the walnut that was on top that he recognises her sly smile tucked behind the rim of her cup.  He frowns and sips his tea to clear the sugar from his tongue.

“I don’t want that,” he says plainly, and when she opens her mouth to speak again, he holds up a hand.  “You’re going to make me actually say it, aren’t you?  I do; of course I do.  Anyone with eyes can see how much I do.  And you must understand how difficult that can be when you have to share him with—what was it you said?  Seven wives and a dozen concubines?  If I don’t bring it up, it bothers me less to share.”

Her frown thaws slightly.  “I know.”

“Then—”

“Because he’s put his foot down and called me a meddling old bitch.  I’m absolutely not to go off hunting for more consorts or concubines for him; he’s got quite enough.”  It has the sound of recitation, and Q’s lip quirks.  Bond has said as much in private, but he’s a bit surprised at the balls it must have taken to say it to the frankly intimidating Dowager Queen.  “He’ll lose three of the concubines this year.  Another five next.  At least half of them have husbands picked out; they won’t stay.”

That’s—Q’s brain spins on the thought, but it can’t gain traction: no new girls, and in two years their household will have shrunk by a third.  “And the rest?” he asks, and M’s look shows it wasn’t half as casual as he’d meant it to sound.

“In five years, they’ll all be gone, I suspect.  Even the ones who don’t want to leave will before long.  I think Andrew had one for twelve years—his first, of course—but even she left a year or so after Monique came.  A happily married man makes for unhappy mistresses.”

“Is Bond a happily married man?” Q hums, sipping his tea against his nerves.  M raises a brow wryly.

“If he’s unhappy, I’ve never seen a man in bliss.”

Q’s ears go pink at that, and M chuckles.  He opens his mouth, but what can he say?  His teeth click together again and he nods, blushing.

“He’s been to your bed twice a week this past month.  He visits you more than the rest of them combined.”

“I never told him to do that.  I know he visits them; I’d be more perplexed if he didn’t.”

“He doesn’t.  Not like he should.”  And there’s the reason for her visit, plain and bare on the table: Q makes Bond shirk his duties to the other consorts; he frowns and begins to draw back, but she raises a hand.  Her eyes are as close to gentle as he’s seen them.  “That’s not your fault.  It’s not his fault, either.  It’s the way these things go, and the older wives all remember the moment his favour shifted to someone younger, someone newer.”

A cold pit opens in Q’s stomach at the thought, a yawning chasm full of all the insecurities, the sadness and loneliness of his early days in the castle.  “I’m aware that—”

She powers on as though he hasn’t said anything: “—and when that pattern stops, it can be jarring.  I was in these rooms, myself—not this very room, of course; James does so take after his father.  These were Monique’s rooms until they died—and I know how, as the household settles, old wounds can reopen.  You won’t have many friends for the next few years.  Are you able to cope with that?” she asks shrewdly.

It’s on the tip of his tongue: of course; haven’t they all hated him from the beginning?  But he’s only now begun to sink into the rhythm of life in the pleasure rooms.  Could he give up breakfasts with the older wives?  Being taught to plait hair by Bond’s daughters?  Reading to Edmond until the little boy reaches with always-sticky hands to turn the pages himself?  More than the wives, he’s been adopted by the children, and he knows he’d miss them if he were barred out of spite or jealousy.  He’s quiet.

“Or,” she suggests slowly, pensively.  “They could be glad not to fight over him anymore.  They could be grateful; by the time Andrew stopped coming to my bed, I’ll admit I was glad to see him gone.  I could plan my trysts better if I knew he wasn’t coming.”

“Did,” he asks, frowning, “When you had his father’s attention, did you ever feel guilty for it?  That you’d come and upset the balance?”

“No.”  Her eyes are flint.  “Never.  One cannot afford to be delicate in this situation.”  Q huffs quietly, and she speaks again, gentler: “—but Monique did.  Feeling guilty for being the favourite, that’s not something most of us have to worry about.  It’s a luxury.  You should savour it.”

And now he can see the shape of her own marriage, the long, loveless years welcoming her husband to her bed when he smelled of another woman.  “I’m sorry,” he tells her honestly.

She shrugs.  “I had my Thomas.  Don’t pity me—I knew what it was to be a man’s favourite.”

“Thomas?”

Her eyes flash with humour.  “He was the King’s man,” she tells him, and Q’s cheeks flame.  He’s sure she knows, and whether Bond was the one who told her or her own omniscience includes his marriage’s fumbling first steps, her expression is fondly exasperated as he splutters.  “Tea goes in the mouth, my boy.”

He sips dutifully, and she continues, “I never meant to be cruel.  I was surprised to find you tangled in the spider’s nest of that damned room.  If I’d known, I’d have boxed his ears.”

There’s a lump in his throat that the tea can’t wash away.  “It turned out well enough.”

“Yes,” she agrees.  “I suppose it did.”

They finish their tea in silence, and when they’ve done the servants and slaves seem to materialise out of the motes in the air to sweep away the crumbs.  He walks her to the door and she pauses, smiling.  “It does feel inevitable that he should be fond of you, I think.”

“You’re very kind,” Q tells her.

“No.  I’m not.”

On impulse, he asks: “What happens, now there are no new consorts to greet?  To the—that room, I mean.”

“It rots,” M says, and he’s not imagining the satisfaction in her voice, “and no one again has to wonder who’s looking through the walls at their secrets, at least not for a long time.”

“I don’t think Andrew will use the room, actually,” he confesses.  “Jam—my Lor—er, his father?  Has been speaking with him on the subject of scullery maids—”

“There is an adage about apples and trees,” M cuts in dryly, and Q snickers.

“But he has also been talking with him about.  Well, about marriage, and partnership.  The damage that can be done accidentally by not showing caution and respect.  Andrew hasn’t asked, but I imagine he will; he seems to find the very idea behind the room horrific.”

M hums in thought.  “James has always surprised me with his capacity for kindness.  It is the most lasting thing his father ever taught him.”

“He teaches it well, himself.”

“And your attendant has been moved to another part of the castle, of course; there’s no need for a man to keep the Lantern room while the room is not in use, so he’s gone back to his regular tasks.  I’m sure the concubines are glad to have a man seeing to their toilet again.  When they’ve gone, I’m sure your Lord Husband will find something more satisfyingly humiliating for him to do, so long as it still suits his good birth.  Perhaps someone to take the hunting dogs out and clean up after them when they shit on the rug.”

Q’s lip quirks at that, and M thaws a bit.  “Have heart,” she tells him, then louder: “—and don’t let that lazy slugabed husband of yours sleep so late.  Wear him out if you must, but remember he has duties, too.”

His cheeks are burning when he ducks back into his room, and he can hear her laughter through the door.  When he makes his way back to his bed, Bond is sitting up, stripped to the waist.  Q’s work spectacles are perched on the end of his nose, and he looks over the edge of his book as Q slips into the bed beside him.

“Done cackling like hens with my mum ?” Bond asks, eyes fond for all his tart words.

“She says you’re a lazy sod,” Q answers.  Bond laughs.  

“And?”

“And she says that the other consorts will despise me for being your favourite.”

Bond pauses.  “Will that upset you?”

“Probably a bit,” Q confesses.

Bond sets his book to the side and folds Q’s spectacles on top.  His hands are warm under Q’s tunic as he wraps them around his waist.  Q tips his head back when Bond tries to kiss him, and he takes it as carte blanche to nuzzle along the side of Q’s throat.  “Can I make it up to you?”

“Not right now,” Q says.  “You have a kingdom to run.”

“I’m on holiday,” Bond whines, and Q laughs, squirming in his arms.

“It’s the middle of the day.  Lunch—”

“As if you didn’t stuff yourself with sweets.  I can still taste the sugar on your skin.”  And Bond suckles at the tips of Q’s fingers as if to prove it; Q groans at the feel of teeth against his skin.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Q tries, and Bond’s eyes are dark when they meet his.

“Famished.”

For all his eager words, there’s something soft about the way Bond encourages him to climb onto his lap, about the way he presses his face into the soft top of his belly below his ribs.  He mouths at Q’s skin ticklishly, and Q squirms, kneeling up until they can get his trousers down and Bond unties the laces of his trews.  

“Don’t you have important things to be doing?” Q whispers into the crown of Bond’s head, and Bond laughs.  

“Mmm.  Most of them involve my mouth on your skin,” Bond confirms, and even though they’ve made love hundreds of times since that first time he’d let his shamefaced husband back into his rooms, since he’d let Bond press him into the bed and worship him with gentle hands and mouth, since he’d knelt before the King and consummated, finally, their marriage, it still thrills him.  He’s beginning to suspect it always might.

“There is a kingdom that may fall without your guidance,” Q tuts, even as Bond touches his tongue to the flesh beneath his mouth in little probing tastes.

“But there’s a pretty boy whose cock is going unsucked,” Bond reasons, and when he puts it like that—Q groans when the kisses drift low enough for Bond to make good his promise.

“Oh, I suppose that’s rather important, too,” Q agrees breathlessly.  “You’d better get it done quickly, then.  That poor boy, all unsucked!”

Bond’s chuckle tickles against his abdomen.  “Quickly?  Oh, no.  I want to do the job properly, of course.  If I do it fast, I’ll have to do it again right after, and then I might never go.”

“I don’t know how much stamina you think I have—!”  The words end sharply at the first touch of that mouth on his cock.  Q peers down the length of his belly, but all he can see is the top of Bond’s head; Bond’s hand on his arse encourages him to kneel up, but even when he’s ramrod straight, the most Bond can suck at a time is the head, his hand twisting over the shaft with an ease born of practice.  Before long, however, they’re both frustrated by the distance, and Bond pulls off with a pop.  “I thought you said you’d do the job properly,” Q reminds him, and Bond growls, tipping him into the sheets until they’re both laughing.  As soon as he’s flat on the bed, Bond pins him with a massive hand to his belly, stilling him before swallowing him up again.

It’s as familiar as it is pleasant; for all the visiting emissaries from other kingdoms might taunt that Q is a catamite, a warm sheath for Bond’s cock, in the cosy glow of their bedroom, they know different: that Bond enjoys sucking Q almost as much as Q enjoys being sucked, that they’re careful in maintaining and sharing Bond’s wedding gifts.  Q’s not surprised at the groan he gets when he reaches down to stroke down Bond’s back and, though he has to twist his spine to reach, across Bond’s hole.  Bond makes a greedy sound and Q goes hot all over.

“You were thinking about it, weren’t you?  While I was visiting.”  He knows it, because Bond’s slick, just a little bit loose, and it was Q who was ridden into the sheets this morning and the night before—this is recent, perhaps while Q was bathing and preparing for his guest.  “Did you frig yourself waiting for me?” he asks to watch Bond’s eyes go wide and dark.

And some might call it treason, climbing on top of the King, but Q’s hips make eager little thrusts even as he pushes back with his shoulders to lift that sucking heaven from his cock.  “Off, then.  You can’t ride me; you’ll crush me.”  He wonders, as he watches Bond kneel eagerly before him on the bed: is this love, then?  The King capitulating before a common man?  Bond reaches back to take his hand, to kiss his knuckles, and Q wonders who Bond might have trusted like this before him.  Yes, he decides, this is love.

The first press into Bond’s body drags sounds from both of them, a sigh from Bond and a soft cry from Q as he eases his way in.  Bond is soft and wet inside, and Q wonders how long he’d lain in bed with his fingers inside himself, imagining this moment.  It deserves a reward; Q presses his lips to the scar that covers almost the entirety of Bond’s left shoulder blade and Bond sighs again, relaxing.  His body welcomes Q, squeezing tight and silky around him.

As always, it takes a moment for Bond’s body to give up some of his taut control.  He pushes back against Q’s thrusts, holds himself rigid and hard against the rock of Q’s hips.  Then just as suddenly, the tension leaves his frame and Bond melts, sinks to his elbows until he’s softer, more receptive.  Q can fuck into him without a fight, and he does.  When he draws almost all the way out and shoves back in, they both moan.

“I have to say I love you like this,” Q tells him.  Bond presses back against his hips for more, but Q stills him, presses with his fingertips in the small of Bond’s back until he knows that Bond understands: slow.  He wants to do this slowly, to do it right.  Bond shudders under his hand and the little hairs along the line of his spine stand with prickled gooseflesh as he makes a sound that’s somewhere between a moan and a whimper.  “So beautiful.  So obedient.  I like you submitting.”

“Do you,” Bond says drily, and they both know it’s meant to be sneered, just as they both know Bond doesn’t quite reach it; Q bumps into him with a particularly full thrust and even the playacting version of Bond’s rebellion fades, breaking his words with a groan.  Bond sinks further, curls his fingers in the bedding, and spreads himself for more of Q’s cock.

“Oh, yes,” Q breathes.  He’s getting close; he’s talking now as much to distract himself from the lovely clench of Bond’s arse as he is to taunt him, and he can see in the arch of Bond’s spine and the curl of his toes that he’s not much better off.  “You’re so gorgeous.  Even better that no one else gets to see you like this, that no one else can have your faith, your trust the way I do.  I do truly love you—”  And Q means to add something—‘speared on my cock,’ perhaps, or ‘kneeling in front of me,’ or even just ‘like this’—but Bond gives a broken little sob at the words, juts his arse back, and fucks himself through an orgasm that leaves him shivering and beatific, and Q can’t look down at the pretty squinch of Bond’s face against the pillow and add something trite to that.  There are stars in Bond’s eyes and he’s the one that put them there, and yes, he does.  He honestly, truly does, and though he’s said as much with kisses and his body, he’s suddenly unsure he’s ever said it in words.  

When he’s come, Bond is more languid, an enormous sleepy cat basking in the heat between them.  Q gives him back the authority in stride, rolling until his hard cock is out and Bond’s covered him up like a heavy blanket.  Bond reaches between them, then, and puts his mouth to Q’s throat as he pulls him off with slow, methodical strokes.  He’s writhing from the calluses on Bond’s palm by the time he comes, oversensitive and shaking with pleasure, and Bond rubs through it, murmuring soft, sweet nothings in his ear.  “So good,” Bond purrs as Q squirms beneath him, silly with pleasure and slick with sweat.  “Good, good.”

He staggers to his feet from the bed and Q watches him amble around the little room.  Yes, Bond’s been here before, of course, and with someone else besides, but as Q rolls over to watch him at the pitcher and basin—watches Bond make silly faces at him as he rubs the oil from his arse and Q’s spend from his belly before rinsing the cloth to return to clean him—Q realises that this room, this man, is home.  The wet flannel is chilly on his skin, but Bond sinks into his embrace when Q lifts his arms, even though they both know he does have things to get to today, and when he’s covered over with his husband’s damp, sweaty body, he’s amazed at the forms that home can take.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is from the Song of Solomon, as well:
> 
> _My beloved spoke, and said unto me: 'Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away._   
>  _For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;_   
>  _The flowers appear on the earth; the time of singing is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;_   
>  _The fig-tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines in blossom give forth their fragrance. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away._


End file.
